Mortal Worries
by Jenger
Summary: Tastes like death, but nothing gory -I promise. A troubled Fey petitions an apparently apathetic lord with concerns about Oberon, but does he want to know? (NO I'm NOT alliterating intentionally -cross my heart and...)


A short story for English class I rather liked.  Anthropology class is still more fun though.

_*Ahem* Shakespeare is such an integral part of western culture that I feel that works referencing him don't count as fanfiction. ^.^;; Rationalization aside, I just need something moderately...hmm how best to say this... not embarrassing to put up on the fictionpress side.  There is a longer in progress version of this on the fanfic side. Parts of it are rushed, apologies. _

_I'm a bit annoyed by the fanfic/fiction split, but Ob-la-di Ob-la-da life goes on._

Mortal Worries

So, this _is_ the infamous Robin Goodfellow who kneels before me.  A bit younger than I imagined, and a trifle stockier as well, but nonetheless he fits the description.  How meekly he kneels, perching there with his nose to the ground.  Where now is his reported boldness, that illustrious self-assurance?  He all but trembles to spill his doubts at my feet.  He should know that this would surely bring my contempt upon him if he had not already earned it.  What possessed that creature to trespass into my hall, coming unsummoned andcarrying no message from the High Lord?  I should be rid of him now since he admits to having no orders.  But this extraordinary behavior, so at odds with his repute.  Though perhaps... 

Perhaps he knows the truth about Oberon?  Would the faithful servant dare take notice?  For all his notoriety, he is still but a lesser denizen.  He could, at the most, have suspicions, simple intangible fears worming up from his subconscious.  Would he bring them to me, for Anhel to allay?  Of course.  I would be the one to come to, if he would risk it, and Robin's reputation brims with greater audacities than this.  

Hrmph. Does he think me a fool for sentiment and a memory forgotten?  Does he dare think he has some whit of control, some whisper of obligation to hold over me?  Ridiculous, the fool a hundred times over.  Death to the fool.

Hold.  You are truly a slave to sentiment if you let this insignificant scrap of the buried past unsettle you so.  He is but another servant, a simple denizen.  

A commoner barging into a noble hall without order or invitation.  

Unquestionably a death sentence.  

If he is not stopped here, he will only spread his fear further.

So death?  

Still, he came to risk my court...let him speak.  

I lift my hand, finally acknowledging the puck's presence at the foot of my dais. The way he goes uncannily still, sensing for any form of impending death, that delicious moment just before realizing I will hear him out -clearly he knows how near death came.  He was not entirely expecting leniency.  He cannot be acting out of ignorance.  

So he is fearless or foolhardy, a mix of both no doubt.  Loyal and reckless is the Little Hand of Oberon.  Then the silly creature _has_ come to speak about Oberon.

I wave for him to stand, and he springs up in a single graceful movement to begin his petition.  He bows, eyes deferred, and a long chant of deferential formalities glitters in all the pretty tones of a court orator.  The words slide by, meaningless, the pure sound becomes all that matters, nimble soothing tones spinning without the aid of magic.  Eventually he falters, no longer the quick tongued puck Oberon had so often boasted of and praised.  Finishing with the well practiced pleasantries, likely the same used to address many a lord, he hesitates.  Could it be concern for his well being?  No, that would be there all along.  Plainly some new burden weighs on this small one. Concern for his Lord?  How touching.

     "I worry about him ever more these days." Robin Goodfellow finally confesses, his eyes firmly adhered to the foot of my dais.  He speaks slowly now, uncomfortably, picking out his words like so many burrs on his shaggy pelt.  "I simply cannot deny it any longer.  The High King is...that is he seems to be losing his...vitals."  He raises his earnest brown doe eyes as carefully as he phrased his suspicion, searching for my reaction, but I know he sees none.  I stay carefully still and expressionless, facing a fragment of the truth no one outside the Higher should know.  Silence seems to be the best defense lately, a passive shield against the unassailable.  

     Disturbingly, the High King Oberon, Lord of the Fairies, the strongest of us all- is aging.  Aging.  Not maturing.  Not growing, but instead a slow degenerative accumulation of the years.  Unbelievable, unfeasible, but ultimately, real.  Disbelief, no, the heartfelt desire _not_ to believe, keeps the puck to only anxious concern.  It goes so against all we value, all we believe.  Age is a virtue, a mark of distinction indicating station and commanding respect.  Age is power.  But this. . . It's neither the glorious growth of the young nor the fine maturation of the elder, but a disturbingly repulsive process that should only occur in the mortal realms.  That is horror lying behind the puck's concern.  Understandable horror.  

The suggestion is so vile, so freakishly unnatural that it screams of the impossible.  Yet it is truth, happening even now as I sit in the very throne he granted me.  Time touches Oberon, defiling his presence in ways I cannot fathom.  It violates his mind.  It degrades him slowly, in aching degrees.  

Yes, a unanimous vote, another- though less horrifying- impossible, by I and all other Higher fairies that know of the High Lord's...condition, keeps panic at bay.  At all costs it must remain unknown from the lesser denizens.  Many simply avoid the issue, preferring not to recognize Oberon's growing decay and overlooking his minor senilities. This puck dares to guess at it, going as far as seeking my support, but even he does not truly grasp it thus far.   No one speaks of it aloud, not daring to or wishing to.  The topic is nauseating at best.   He is noticeably slowing down over the centuries.  In dark corners of the world, some even speculate he will come to a complete stop.  My ancient heart tightens.  What would it be like to suddenly end?  Worse yet, how would it feel to slowly molder?  A sluggish decomposition...I feel my lip curling in disgust and suddenly notice Robin there, on the periphery of my dais and edging further back, flicking his tail nervously.  Still a healthy desire for self preservation I see.   Despite the echoes of grim and filthy thoughts, I motion the puck to continue, attempting to smile encouragingly.  

Let him speak indeed.

Goodfellow shifts onto his cloven hooves and straightens, clearing his bearded throat after the little fright I gave him.  Surreptitiously returning to my dais, wait, no, he's not actually moving.  Irrational enough to think he could have escaped my displeasure, he shrank to the size of a rabbit.  Should I resist the temptation to smile as he grows as inconspicuously as possible now, making his report so stiff backed and straight faced?

"There are the little things my lord, that everyone knows.  He is not as..." Robin falters again, searching for a word, "punctual any longer, on occasion ordering the birds to sing hours before dawn, much to the confusion and disruption of the denizens, or staying the frost until the water nymphs complain..." He prattles on with dull drivel, all of it common enough information, and the possible grin vanishes, as pale eyes narrow.  He dares to bother me with trivia?  How best to silence him...

Ah, but Robin perceives my displeasure, much better.  I see how he has survived under Oberon all these years.  He quickens his speech, smoothly interjecting, "...but those are, admittedly, trifles and the King can do as the King pleases-" Abruptly, he rushes to my side in a blur none Earthbound could have witnessed.  Leaning close to my ear, he mutters in a conspirator's tone so dramatic it nears comic, "I hasten to add, my lord, bad timing is not the end of it.  Of late, it has become more serious than anyone knows or suspects.  Far worse then even you, sir, know."  

            My indifferent frontward stare never wavered, but my eon of experience was tested.  He thinks he is closer to the truth than **I**?  "How so?" I prompt impassively, ignoring his dramatics.  As if death needs any melodrama, I think as I suppress a shudder.  Lesser denizens are so foolish.

"In; the beginning the...complications were easy to cover.  When he started forgetting minor details- petty irrelevant things- names of human places, the movement of stars, passes through mountains," the puck speaks desperately, seeking my approval with his doe eyes again. "I; was always on hand for...assistance." 

"As is your duty." I say, though not unkindly. 

"Then, this latest spat-no, battle with Queen Titania.  I know the cause; I doubt any know it, save the King and Queen of course.  Do you wish me to say?"  The last question was nearly a squeak.  I nod, my curiosity piqued and amused at his eagerness.  I suppose I am not above gossip when it comes to the Royal private life.  

Robin glances about nervously, wets his lips and leans close to my ear.  In a tiny hesitant whisper, he furtively divulges his secret. Oberon forgot their Anniversary. He settles back, biting his lip, while I reflect in stunned silence. 

Anniversary.  The Queens silent anger.  That explains things.  Astonishing...to forget something so intimate, so personal..that day which is known by only two, secretly shared by just two.  None of the Higher knew.  Of all our musings we never guessed, the very possibility...For so long the Fairy Queen refused to say, and Oberon, well, is Oberon.  No questioning the Fairy King. 

Titania's strong attachment to Oberon runs old and deep.  That immense tie between them brims with energies and when that bond is upset, uncontrollable elemental powers break free to run rampantly across the land.  Their usual arguments, over servants, infidelity, silly petty jealousies all, usually produce a few soured cows and a thundershower or two in the mortal relm.  Mere trifles compared to their latest quarrel.  I suspect Titania knew of Oberon's condition before any others guessed and that underlying fear caused part of the scale and magnitude of the destruction.  

Spring weather turned winter cold.  Heavy freezing rains that turned to heavy pelting hail that pounded the land, destroying sprouting field and flowering meadow alike.  I can still see how the lands lay pulverized, while some sort of pox struck mankind and plague fires hazed the skies.  Not only were there mortal troubles, but, for the first time, fey casualties.  Scores of dryads are dead, their groves of heart trees fallen in the storms, and many fragile winged pixies, the ones that did not hasten quickly to my welcome, are still unaccounted for.  The survivors already mourn, knowing their kindred have most likely been blown asunder by the furious winds. 

My hall was filled a full two phases of the moon sheltering the fey escaping her wrath, few places were safe.  The surprisingly vicious weather lasted until Oberon finally apologized, a disturbing act in itself.  The King never apologized.  He lied and schemed, using cunning to get his way.  The Oberon who prepared me, the Oberon I remember best, never gave in. Ever victorious, until now. Now his own woman can control him. A sad position that.   

A pity. Once, he was the mightiest of us all.   This bizarre and disquieting influence of time is becoming so glaringly evident that Robin, most loyal and capable of Oberon's minions, doubts the King of the Fey. I suppose the puck has sweated long enough, he might chew through that lip if he champs down any harder.  How shall I deal with this fellow?  Hm.

Ah lovely, so very simple.

            I smoothly coach my blank face into a mask of impatient boredom, patiently waiting for that point where the tension simply must break or the puck's lip falls off.  And at last I break the silence. 

" Is that," I quirk an eyebrow, "it;?"

His pointed chin snaps up.  A pause, a silent beat.  He seems surprised and...angry?  Yes, good.  He thinks I am not moved.  He expected more. 

 That quick dark look he gives me, if only I could bottle it, put it to the light and peer closer.  Why should I care Robin?  There's something closed in that look.  Robin, Robin, Robin, is there something you keep back from a Lord?  They recount about you still, leaning in close until you are a whisper in my ear teasing the whisper of a memory.   You might have saved me from being Titania's plaything.  Maybe.  But those are their words, not mine.  The gossip, the things they hint.  How they love to spin rings around me with the murmur of things they know I cannot remember.  What could you tell?  What would you tell? How can I hold the span of a child's memory aloft, whole and pure, in an aeon of time solvent?  Who can remember their former life?  

He wavers there in stunned silence.  Those dark doe eyes are very large.

"Do you, Robin Goodfellow, have anything else to add?" One more chance for him to leave, or he must be dealt with.

A slight distortion in the air and Robin has flown back to his former report stance.  "As you wish my lord, I believe that King Oberon is weakening...in mortal terms," he speaks candidly, closed and straight backed as ever.  No helping it now, foolish puck.

"Weakening?" I repeat, frowning in confusion.  Then chuckling, as if I suddenly understand him, "Do you mean to say, little puck, that High Lord Oberon, immortal King of the Fairies, is aging?"  I almost hesitate, it almost hurts to do this.  

I turn my full gaze upon him, staring incredulously.  He stiffens, pinned under the influence of my look: speechless, motionless, powerless.  Suddenly I grin despite the sudden prick of something akin to guilt. Throwing my head back, I laugh long and hard.  

As tears trickle down my cheeks, I signal for attendants who abruptly materialize responding quickly to my summons, even before the echoes of my laughter return.  They appear, soft winged, spidery, gossamer veined or hoofed, surrounding the dais around the stunned puck.

"Have you heard what mister Goodfellow has just told me?  Go on, listen." I tell my curious servants, falling back in my throne with a smirk.  

Surrounded by fey of the same rank, he seems to realize just what he is suggesting.  The absurdity of it.  The Horrifying Proposition that must be met with either derision or anger.  Shame or death.  Too impatient for him to gather himself and perhaps antagonize them, I proclaim with a patronizing grin, "According to mister Goodfellow, Oberon the Immortal is aging!"   

My underlings blink, astonished, then burst into incredulous laughter, joining my own resonant chortles.  Our frenzied cackles seem to mass in the echoing chamber, surrounding the embarrassed Robin in a swarm.  It should.  The charm I cast with my incredulous gaze preys on insecurity, heightens self-consciousness and concern for image. I cough, catching my breath, and speak to the puck, while my servants laugh in fits "Goodfellow, you are a well known prankster and your tricks are amusing, but now surely you overstep your bounds?"  Yes, just Puck trying to pull a trick, no worries, no panic...can't blame a fool for doing his job...admit you were joking...come on... 

He reddens, from neck to pointed horns and stutters, "I am sorry sir, but in truth, I..." An impatient wave of my hand silences him.  Ugh so stupid. My patience is gone.

"Go now to your master, puck.  Fly from my halls and do not waste anymore time on this foolishness." I order, and he is quick to obey, disappearing from the patronizing stares of my minions and the lingering giggles.  I watch his vanishing form with a fixed smile.  Word of this will spread, and I fear his reputation will suffer. 

Gossip will kill this legend. It was a tough thing to do, but it is done. It had to be for peace. Such courage for coming to my court at all, for questioning while others choose to ignore...it almost shames me, of my own cowardice, no matter if it keeps the public safe.  

Silence again, and bought at such a price.

"Did he really suggest that a Fairy was growing old?" a dove-winged pixie asks, "I mean a full blooded Fey, in the mortal sense?" 

I grin and nod with an expression of amusement, " And he said it was the High King no less!" They burst into peals of laughter once more.  I smile at them absently, but I cannot bring myself to join them a second time.  

I have mortality weighting on my mind.


End file.
